


Superstition

by severalkittens



Series: Is this temporary love? [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Smut, if there weren't plot too I'd tag it as PWP, seriously this is just smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 21:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalkittens/pseuds/severalkittens
Summary: “You don’t actually think you cursed the Champions League Final, do you?” Jan asks.“No,” Paulo says defensively, digging a thumb into Jan’s shoulder blade. “I’m not superstitious, I know it doesn’t work like that."





	Superstition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CarmenOnMonday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmenOnMonday/gifts).

> A number of people suggested I write about Jan and Paulo after the penalty shoot out, so I did. It takes place two months after What Happens In Madrid, which is not the same universe as the rest of my Jan/Paulo fics.
> 
> It's definitely the smuttiest thing I've ever written, and I edited it much less than I normally would have. I hope you all enjoy anyway!

Paulo’s staring at his phone, sweating. He’s on the plane to Munich, mercifully in a single seat, and he’s just received an email from Pochettino. The hotel in Munich is small, he says. Some people will have to share rooms. They shouldn’t worry- everyone will have plenty of space. Paulo doesn’t mind sharing his room, he’s a sound sleeper and he gets along with pretty everyone. But Pochettino has drawn him with Jan Vertonghen, and he and Jan have history.

In Madrid, a few days before the final, he’d gone knocking on Jan’s door one night, looking for a distraction, looking for some way to release the absurd tension hanging thick around the Final they were about to play. He’d been watching the way Jan looked at him all season. He knew it was a safe enough bet. At the least he’d get a rise out of Jan, at most, he’d get a good fuck. 

And God, had it been good. No two ways about it, Jan had blown Paulo’s mind. The way he kissed, the way he tasted. The way Paulo fucked him still in his underwear until he moaned and squirmed and came right on Paulo’s dick. 

“Next time, we’ll be Champions of Europe,” Paulo had said. The words still ring in his head like they’re cursed, like in speaking them he’d singlehandedly brought about the loss. They hadn’t won, they weren’t Champions of Europe. They’d only shared a moment of eye contact after the final, and it could have been Paulo’s imagination but he was pretty sure Jan was thinking exactly what he was thinking. _It’s over. We lost. Goodbye._

Now months have passed and Paulo still doesn’t know what to do or say to make it better. It was the last time Paulo had seen him until they both turned up up at Hotspur Way for the new season. Jan’s been nothing but normal since they’ve been back. Friendly, courteous, like nothing had happened between them. 

It doesn’t surprise Paulo much- from the way he’d rocked back onto Paulo’s cock, that hadn’t been Jan’s first rodeo. Jan was probably as adept at keeping things professional as he was at taking a dick. Paulo has kept his cool, too. When Jan smiles, he smiles back, and he shakes Jan's hand like he hasn’t spent the entire summer wanking to memories of the noises he made.

So when they head into the hotel that night, Paulo steels himself for the worst- Jan walking around naked. Jan talking in his sleep. Jan surreptitiously trying rub one out under the covers. Jan crawling into Paulo’s bed and whispering, “Paulo, I’m cold.” _Yeah, ok, now he’s just fantasizing._

Instead, Jan keeps that professional distance he’s struck up ever since they got back- he politely dips into the bathroom to change, he instantly puts in his earbuds and puts on no doubt one of his awful podcasts. There’s not so much as the dip of a towel, or even the flutterof an eyelid that could maybe, _maybe _be construed as a wink. When Paulo turns out the lights that night, and says “Good night, Jan,” in his deepest voice, Jan rolls over to face the wall and goes directly to sleep.

In spite of himself, Paulo lies awake wondering whether he misread everything. He has to admit he’s thrown by Jan’s sudden attachment to Winksy- sitting together on the plane, at meals, talking each other up in interviews. He’d even briefly wondered whether they were fucking. But no, Jan surely wouldn’t make it so public. _No one in their right mind would go for Winksy when I’m right here, waiting, _he tells himself. Right? 

Paulo drifts off to sleep telling himself things will be better tomorrow.

Things are better, because they win against Real Madrid and Paulo keeps a clean sheet. _Yeah, ok, _he thinks. _I don’t need Jan Vertonghen, in fact, he needs me, he-_

“Paulo,” there’s a hand wrapped around his neck, a familiar voice in his ear. “You saved my _ass _back there. So fucking grateful for you.” And unless he’s imagining it, there are lips touching his earlobe, no wait, actually there are _teeth_ are touching Paulo’s earlobe. But before he can quite figure it out, the pressure releases and Jan’s clapping him on the shoulder. “Unbelievable goalkeeper.”

He winks as he walks away, leaving Paulo half hard in his match shorts, power walking towards the shower faster and much more awkwardly than he normally would. 

By the time he gets back to the hotel room, he’s imagined every possible way it could go down. Maybe Jan will be on him in an instant, the minute he walks in. Or maybe Jan will make him wait, send him glances across the room all night, only reel him in right at the end of the night. He scrubs a hand through his hair before he walks in the room, puts on his easy, confident grin.

But Jan’s not in there. Paulo stands there for a minute, wondering what to do. He takes another shower, he goes downstairs to buy a snack from the vending machine, he walks over to Lamela’s room to see what he’s doing. Every time he comes back, he expects to find Jan, casually sitting on his bed, waiting for Paulo with that look in his eye. But every time, the room’s empty. 

Eventually, Paulo realizes tired enough to just go to sleep. It’s a little bit early, they have another game tomorrow, and if he stays up waiting for Jan to come back he’s going to make himself crazy. So he brushes his teeth, puts in his earplugs, dims the light, and lets himself drift off. 

He’s almost unconscious when he hears the door open quietly, hears Jan pad across the floor, and slide into his own bed, much too far away on the other side of the room. He tries to form acoherent thought, maybe some kind of a plan, anything to get Jan closer. But Paulo’s too far gone, and by the time Jan finishes getting ready for bed and turns the lights completely out, Paulo’s fast asleep. 

At the final whistle, Paulo thanks his lucky stars he went to bed so early. They’ve tied 2-2 against Bayern. He knows it’s his fault. He knows he can’t think about it now, because they’re going to penalties. The walk from his goal to the center line seems to take forever. Like he barely remembers how to put one foot in front of the other. But he does it, just like he somehow remembers how to swallow the water he squirts into his mouth, somehow remembers how to arrange his face and make noises with his voice when he’s talking to Toni. 

He stands there chewing on his lip, half-listening to Pochettino barking out orders to the team. He’s so close to them he could reach out and touch Eriksen’s shoulder, ruffle Sonny’s hair, but in his mind he’s worlds away. He fixes his socks and shinguards for the hundredth time, and then stands up to meet his fate.

The walk back to the goal is over in a cruel flash. Next thing he knows, he’s on the line standing next to Ulreich, waiting for the Ref’s word.

_Eleven players on the pitch, _Paulo thinks, spitting into his gloves and smacking his hands a few times. _Concentrate, envision the ball making contact with your glove. Stay sharp. _Focus_. Focus. _

The ref nods at Ulreich, _you’re going first._ He touches Paulo’s elbow to nudge him off to the side, out of the way. He rests his hands on his knees, mind blank, waiting. 

And then, it starts.

If you had asked Paulo, he’d have told you he was pretty experienced, that he knows how to take a loss, knows how to take a win. But when the moment comes, the moment he saves that penalty from Boateng, it all goes out the window. The last thing he remembers is the ball hitting his hand. Lying on the ground, staring at it as it rolled away and came to a rest, easily,_ miraculously _out of the net. 

He must run, he must yell himself hoarse. But in reality, he has no idea how he gets over to his teammates, no idea who he sees first, no idea what exactly he said that made his voice so hoarse. Yeah, he knows it’s a preseason friendly. He knows it doesn’t really matter. But he’s just saved two penalties, won Tottenham the shootout, redeemed himself. And it’s that thought, that feeling, that carries him through the celebrations soaring on eagles’ wings. 

By the time they get back to the hotel, the hotel staff has already lined the banquet tables they’ve been using for meals with heaping plates of hot food. There are buckets of beers in the centers of the tables, and someone’s opened the window on the far wall into a bar. It’s still pre-season, so they’re not really supposed to be drinking. But someone, Pochettino, probably, had recognized they could use a night off, some way to turn over a new leaf from the passion and the heartbreak of last season. 

_You all know your limits, _they’ve been told. _You all know when you need to be in bed. _It’s really just a more adult way of saying, “three beers for you, Paulo, and lights out by eleven!” But of course he doesn’t mind. He’s still over the moon. He’s still astounded that his brain did _that, _that his long, gangly body actually _cooperated, _that he’d saved those shots. 

_Me! I did that! _The little voice in his head repeats it every so often, like it’s trying to convince the rest of him. It’s nice, and Paulo wishes he could feel this way all the time. For once, he lets himself imagine what it would be like to be a first choice keeper somewhere, with the confidence of a manager, the confidence of a team. 

He lets himself imagine what it would be like to be the first choice keeper here, at Tottenham, with Pochettino’s confidence. If he works hard, makes leaps and bounds, maybe he’ll be the one to get the call when Hugo hangs up his gloves. Usually, it feels like a long shot, but tonight, it feels within reach, like maybe he can actually do it.

He’s just finished his second beer when he realizes Jan’s been teasing him all night, maybe even all week. He’s reaching into the bucket for a third when he feels a firm hand on his elbow. Jan’s standing there next to Paulo’s seat, mischief lively on his sharp features. He pulls Paulo’s hand out of the bucket.

“For you,” Jan smiles, sliding a glass of whiskey into his hand. “Single malt, barrel aged. Only the best for the best.”

And then he turns and walks away. Paulo sits there, swirling the single ice cube around the glass. He’s not quite sure what to make of what just happened, but suddenly, all these little details he’d missed in the chaos of the penalty shootout come flooding back. The way Jan had looked at him across the pitch, like maybe he wanted to eat him. The way his hand had rested gently on the nape of Paulo’s neck before the trophy lifting, then snaked up through the baby hairs at the base of his skull. The way Jan’s lips have been ghosting over the neck of his beer bottle all night, like he’s pretending it’s something else. 

He knows without looking, with some uncanny sixth sense he’s developed over years of sleeping around, that when he checks his phone, he’ll find a text from Jan. He’d like to keep some of his dignity, though, so he makes sure to sip down half of the whiskey before he lets his eyes flash to the screen.

_Come sit with me_

Paulo turns, and Jan’s already waiting expectantly.

“Ah, here’s the man of the hour,” he cries, arms thrown wide. He gestures at the empty seat next to him, and Paulo takes it, grinning.

“You know, I can leave the room tonight. A hero should have a room all to himself,” Jan says. There’s a faint challenge in his voice, like it’s all part of a big joke. 

“No!” Paulo says, louder and much more aggressively than he intended. “No, you can stay.”

“You sure?” his blue eyes are laughing at Paulo, and Paulo’s mesmerized. “I can always go stay with Winksy, or Toby.” 

Paulo sips at the whiskey, a little too tipsy and frayed at the nerves to have something clever to say. Jan leans in closer. 

“Say it,” he says. “Say it and I’ll make sure you get what you deserve.” Paulo can feel Jan’s breath on his cheek, whiskey numbing his brain. He takes several deep breaths and tries hard to focus.

“You’re mine tonight, Vertonghen.”

Jan drains his drink, slams it down on the table, and stands. He sends one more look at Paulo, one that sends a shiver right down his spine, and then he turns on his heel and leaves. Paulo sits there shell-shocked for a moment. But then his senses catch up with him, and he, too, drains his glass, stands up, and rushes from the bar.

Jan’s waiting just around the corner, and Paulo’s hands are on him before he even has a chance to open his mouth. He pulls Jan in by the hips, lets him feel how fucking hard he already is, even though all they’ve barely touched. He slides a hand to his lower back and presses his mouth to Jan’s. He’s just as soft and pliable as he remembered, lips warm and gentle, body slotting in against Paulo’s in all the right places. 

Kissing him feels like a relief, somehow, like his body was afraid he’d never do it again. Paulo draws one of Jan’s lips in between his teeth, just to make it’s real, and Jan whimpers into his mouth. It makes Paulo stumble a little bit, and he catches himself on the wall, hand pressed just next to Jan’s head.

“Steady, Paulo,” he says. But he doesn’t look much steadier himself, trapped between Paulo and the wall, fingers fisted in the hem of Paulo’s shirt. He glances to the side briefly, and then slides his arm around Paulo’s waist. 

“Upstairs, now,” Jan commands, nudging him down the hallway. “Don’t want anyone finding uslike this.” 

Paulo wants to make a comment about how he’s pretty sure everyone already knows. How Lamela’s been chirping him for months about the way he looks at Jan, and how Jan’s not too subtle himself. How they’ve just left the bar together in a manner only Juan Foyth could interpret as innocent. But Jan’s got his hand tucked into Paulo’s waistband now, and he chooses that moment to pinch Paulo’s hip. Any desire he had to speak promptly vacates him, and he stumbles again into the door of the elevator.

When the doors close, Jan’s back on him, hot and heavy. His hands under Paulo’s shirt, thigh between his legs, lips on the hollow of his neck, so overwhelming he’s not even aware of the beeping as the elevator climbs.

All too soon, Jan’s stepping away, out the elevator door that’s already dinged open, and Paulo’s scrambling after him. He wraps his arms around Jan’s torso when he catches him, lowers his head, and sucks a pink bruise into Jan’s neck. For a minute, Paulo’s absurdly reminded of dragonflies back in Argentina, and how they fly around attached together every summer. 

And then they’re bumping up against the door. Jan’s got the keycard out, because of course he has this planned, of course he’s one step ahead. The door’s open before Paulo can release his lips from Jan’s neck, and Jan’s spinning him around, muscling him into the room, directing his weight onto the nearest bed.

Paulo lands with a thump of boxsprings, and sits there, chest heaving.

“Two penalty saves. Two rewards,” Jan says. He walks toward Paulo, rubbing his hands together. It makes Paulo weak in the knee, and he doesn’t think he could protest even if he wanted to, even if he tried.

“Trousers off,” says Jan. Paulo scrambles out of them, dropping them clumsily to the floor. Jan’s right in front of him now. He’s pulling off his shirt (and _damn, _Paulo had never really appreciated how built he is, or how good he looks with a slight tan), he’s getting to his knees, shuffling up in between Paulo’s legs.

Paulo closes his eyes for a moment and tries to remember how to breath, but that’s a mistake, because Jan picks that moment to wrap a hand around his dick and guide it into his mouth. _All the way into his mouth. _

“Ah, fuck,” Paulo cries out. It doesn’t take long. Jan’s mouth is hot and wet, and he’s just as good at this as he is at literally everything else. He’s doing this thing with his tongue, wide, lazy swipes that sends heat to pool in Paulo’s stomach and makes obscenities spill from his lips in both English and Spanish. He _can’t_ focus on it, because if he does, he’s going to come, right now. He tangles a hand into Jan’s hair, bites his lip, closes his eyes, anything to distract him from the fact that his dick is in Jan’s mouth, just where he’s wanted it all summer.

But then Jan pulls almost all the way off, and Paulo makes the mistake of looking down. Jan’s lips are stretched sinfully around the tip of his dick, and he’s looking right back up at Paulo. As if that weren’t enough to send him over the edge, Jan continues bobbing his head, and then Paulo’s moaning pitifully and coming hard down Jan’s throat before he even knows what’s happening.

Paulo falls back onto his elbows, chest heaving. It’s probably been about forty five seconds, in total, and he’d be embarrassed if he weren’t certain this was exactly what Jan wanted to achieve.

“That was your first reward,” Jan says, wiping his mouth and getting to his feet.

“What’s my second?” He’s barely caught his breath. He’s still more than half hard, and Jan’s still in his jeans.

Jan climbs up on the bed, and Paulo turns to watch him. He lazily unbuttons his jeans, slides them down over his hips and off. He’s hard and leaking, but other than a slight flush creeping down his chest, he seems totally unbothered. This Jan, suave, practiced, in charge, is totally different from the Jan he’d had in Madrid last year. His lust addled brain dimly realizes Jan must have thought about this, wanted this, expected this. The thought sends blood rushing back to his dick, even though he just emptied himself down Jan’s throat moments ago.

“Prepare me.” _Shit, ok, this is happening, _Paulo thinks. He’s still not fully hard, and won’t be for a while, he guesses. He sends a desperate prayer to his dick to get it’s shit together by the time he needs it.

“Yeah?” he says, flopping down on his side.

“Yeah,” Jan says. “Lube’s in the night stand drawer.” Paulo fumbles with it a minute, then pours out a generous quantity onto his fingers, and brings them up between Jan’s thighs.

He spends a lot of time kissing Jan while he works him open. On the lips, on his stubbled jawline, on the soft, freckled skin of his neck. No reason, he’s just desperate to get his mouth back on Jan’s skin. And Jan’s wonderfully responsive, arching into Paulo’s touch when he slides a finger in, moaning softly into Paulo’s mouth when he first brushes over that spot, squeezing the back of his neck at each new stretch.

By the time Jan circles Paulo’s wrist and stills his hand, Paulo’s hard again, but he’s just the slightest bit worried he’s not going to be able to come a second time. He hasn’t had the world’s best luck with repeat performances, historically speaking. But then Jan kneels over him, lines himself up and starts slides down onto him, and he’s making this face like it’s all he’s ever wanted. Yeah, Paulo’s going to have no problem finishing. 

Jan pauses for a second before he moves. “You ok?” he says.

“Me?” A laugh bubbles to Paulo’s lips. “I’m fucking fantastic,” he says, and he bucks his hips upward a couple times, just to prove the point.

“Stop moving,” Jan growls. And then he starts to ride him in earnest. Paulo had been certain Jan sinking onto his dick like that was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. But now Jan’s bobbing up and down, and he’s got a hand on his own cock, working it steadily.

_How in God’s name does he have the stamina? _Paulo wonders helplessly, as Jan fucks himselfon Paulo’s dick, looking like every wet dream he’s ever had. He’s desperately glad he’s wearing a condom, because he’s certain if he weren’t, he’d have lost his shit by now. 

Jan drops his hand and leans forward all the way, and _shit_. The angle is so good, and Jan’s so close to him, right up in his face. Paulo squeezes his hips, digs his palms into his thighs.

“Kiss me,” he says. And Jan does, tongue sliding against Paulo’s as he rocks. Paulo’s definitely not going to last for that much longer, and now he’s embarrassed, because this is the second time, it’s supposed to be slower, he’s-

“Oh, Jan, fuck, you’re-” he moans, stomach clenching, toes starting to curl. He’s going to come. Paulo closes his eyes, bracing himself for the second orgasm, but all he gets is cold air and the snap of a condom pulling off.

At first, he can’t quite piece together what’s happened, but then he sees Jan kneeling between his legs, holding the condom with a devilish grin.

“_What_?” Paulo says, incredulous. “What’d you do that for?”

“This,” Jan says, “is for conceding the first goal.” Paulo groans. He’s so hard he can barely think, but somehow his traitorous brain manages to pull up a reel of Bayern’s first goal.

“Couldn’t you have gotten a bit lower?” Jan says. Jesus, fuck, Paulo is so not going to dignify that with a response. He rolls his eyes, raises a hand to bring it to his frustrated cock.

“Ah, ah, ah,” scolds Jan, smacking his palm away. “Answer.”

“Yes,” Paulo whines, “yes I could have.” He didn’t know he was capable of whining like that. Some time later, after this is all over, he’s really going to have to revisit the fact that he’s actually extremely into this. 

“Hmm, good” says Jan, scooching down the bed. “You’re right, you could have.”

And then he drops to his stomach, and wraps his lips around the tip of Paulo’s dick. Paulo gasps in relief. This time, Jan doesn’t suck him down, just swirls his tongue around the tip until Paulo has to bite his lip and dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from thrusting up. 

He cries out when Jan takes him all the way in. It’s only a few dips of the head before Paulo feels the heat pooling again, his balls tightening. But Jan pops off and squeezes him hard around the base of the cock.

“Are you sorry?” Jan says conversationally. Paulo’s chest is heaving, his eyes are blurring. He shakes his head.

“Are you?” Jan’s voice is harder, but he still doesn’t answer even though it sends a shiver down Paulo’s spine. He’s no longer teetering on the edge, but his cock feels impossibly heavy and wet, like even a feathers’ touch would push him back over to the other side.

Jan sighs, and takes another condom from the nightstand. He pinches the tip and rolls it down over Paulo’s dick. He can feel himself throbbing against Jan’s hand, against the elastic band at the bottom of the condom. He’s never been anywhere near this hard before in his life, and he’s honestly not sure he wants to be again. 

Paulo’s already preparing himself for Jan sinking down onto him again. _You could just come, _his brain supplies. But no, he can’t. Not when Jan’s eyes are telling him that if he just holds on a little bit longer, it’ll be the best reward of all. It jars Paulo out of his thoughts when Jan flops down next to him, looks him dead in the eye and says, “fuck me.”

_Fine, ok, we can do that_, he thinks. If Jan’s going to be this mean, Paulo’s sure as hell going to make sure he feels it. He turns over, lines himself up, and presses into Jan in one go. The way Jan relaxes underneath him nearly undoes him again, but he lets out a slow breath and keeps going. 

He’d intended to fuck Jan hard, but Paulo’s not sure he can manage that just now, so he settles for long, deep strokes, ones that let him slide over Jan’s prostate. At the very least, he’ll pull Jan over the edge with him. 

He knows it’s working because the bravado slips off Jan’s features, and he clutches Paulo around the waist. He kisses Jan on the lips once and strokes the hair back from his forehead, mostly to distract himself from the feeling that’s building in his gut again. Mercifully, Jan is only human, and they’ve been at this for a while, so it doesn’t take very long before Paulo can feel Jan leaking onto his stomach, starting to tense up underneath him. 

“You gonna come first, Jan?” he says. Jan nods, and takes a few breaths, like he’s about to say something.

“Mmm?” Paulo prompts, reaching down to wrap a hand around Jan. It’s a little bit mocking, he knows, but he’s pretty sure Jan can take it.

“When I come,” Jan draws a few shaky breaths, Paulo can tell how close he is, “you’re still not allowed.”

“Fuck you,” Paulo whispers, and he snaps his hips a few more times, just until Jan is crying out and clenching around him and coming hot all over Paulo’s chest. 

It nearly finishes him. Nearly. But Paulo saved two penalties tonight and won Spurs a trophy. And if he can do that, he can definitely hold back from coming inside Jan Vertonghen. So he kisses Jan’s sweaty forehead and slides out before Jan even opens his eyes. He pulls off the condom himself this time, and discards it in the trash.

“I didn’t say you could take that off,” says Jan, eyes still closed. Paulo just snorts, and attempts to wipe some of the come off his chest with his Jan’s briefs. 

Jan’s propped himself up on a pillow by the time Paulo looks over. He looks happy, sated, and Paulo’s dick twitches like it intuitively knows this is almost over. 

“Kneel,” Jan says, voice gentle now, patting the bed on either side of his chest. Paulo obeys, like he’d do anything else at this point. He settles in on Jan’s ribcage, and rests his hands in the hairs on Jan’s chest.

“Are you sorry?” Jan repeats, voice soft and sleepy now.

“No,” says Paulo, honest now in his desperation for Jan to touch him. 

“No?” says Jan. He’s running his hands up and down Paulo’s legs soothingly. 

“No,” he says. “I’m glad I conceded. I’m glad it went to penalties. I’m glad I got the chance to prove I could do it,” he pauses, wondering whether he should keep talking or shut up now. But now that he’s started, he can’t really stop until the rest of the thought is out. “I’m glad I got the chance to prove I could do it to myself.” 

With those words, Jan slides one of his hands down to cup Paulo’s balls. “I’m so proud of you,” he says. 

Jan trails his other finger up Paulo’s hip and across his stomach, and brings it to the tip of Paulo’s dick to smear the precome that’s gathered there. Paulo sighs in relief.

“So proud,” he says, rubbing his finger in tiny circles. Paulo’s been close for half the night, but it’s nothing to what he feels now. Jan’s barely touching him, and his stomach is clenching, his eyes are watering, he just needs a little more…

“You’re a fucking spectacular goalkeeper, Paulo.” His dick twitches, and he whimpers. 

“So good for me tonight,” Jan whispers. And that’s what does it. His dick starts to throb, and everything coiled so tightly inside him lets go. It’s a lot like saving that last penalty, because he has no idea how long or how hard he comes, he just lets it destroy him. He’s vaguely aware Jan has a hand wrapped around him, vaguely aware that he’s spilling onto Jan’s face, onto his neck, onto his chest, vaguely aware he’s got both his hands in the mess he made, rubbing his come into Jan’s skin.

“Fuck,” he says breathlessly, when he finally comes down. “Sorry.”

“You like that, huh?” Jan says, and Paulo doesn’t bother to hide his confusion. Jan swipes his thumb through the come on his chest. “The come thing, you did it last time, too.” 

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Hot,” says Jan. Paulo just groans and rolls off of Jan. He lies there for a minute, forearm thrown over his eyes, certain he’s just died. He sort of hears Jan get up, probably to clean himself up, but he can barely open his eyes, definitely can’t be bothered to move. 

Eventually he feels the bed dip and Jan’s warm weight settles in next to him. “Paulo.”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you ok?” There’s a hand on his arm, drawing it back from his eyes. He wraps it around Jan’s shoulders, pulls him into his chest.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely, thumbing the tiny hairs on the back of Jan’s neck. “Jesus, Jan. Could we not have started with like, a quick hand job in the shower?”

Jan snorts. “Says the one who knocked on my door and sat me on his lap on a work night in Madrid.”

“Fair, fair,” says Paulo. He _did _do that. It seems like a lifetime ago, even more than it did when he’d woken up to Jan’s empty bed this morning.

“No, I’m joking,” Paulo continues, sliding his fingers higher up Jan’s scalp. “It was hot, Jan, really fucking hot. I was thinking maybe I should concede more often.”

“No,” says Jan, laughing into Paulo’s chest. “You really shouldn’t."

“No,” Paulo agrees. He reaches over to dim the lights, and they fall into an easy silence for a while.

“Next time, we’ll be Champions of Europe,” Jan mumbles, bringing back the words that have been haunting him for months. “I’ve been stuck on that all summer, why did you say that?” 

“I don’t know,” says Paulo, truthfully. “I just said it. And then after, it felt like- I don’t know, like I cursed it or something.”

“If you think about it,” Jan says slowly, “we kind of are Champions of Europe now. Juventus, Bayern, Madrid.” 

He’s doing that deadpan thing, where Paulo can’t tell if he’s being serious or not, so he chuckles fondly into the top of Jan’s head.

“You don’t actually think you cursed the Champions League Final, do you?” Jan asks.

“No,” Paulo says defensively, digging a thumb into Jan’s shoulder blade. “I’m not superstitious, I know it doesn’t work like that."

“Sure, Paulo, whatever you say,” says Jan. Paulo can feel him smirking against his chest, and he just knows Jan’s about to say something ridiculous.

“But if you still want that quick hand job in the showers, I’ll do it after we beat-“

“No!” yells Paulo, clapping a hand over Jan’s mouth, shutting him up before he can set them up for disaster.

“Not superstitious, huh?” Jan says, when Paulo finally moves his hand. Paulo pinches the back of his neck in retaliation, and Jan yelps.

“It’s no problem,” Jan says lazily, once he’s settled back into Paulo’s arms, and their breathing has relaxed. “It doesn’t have to be after a win.”

“No?” says Paulo.

“No,” continues Jan. “I’ll give it to you any time you want.” His breathing is slowing, and his eyelids are drooping a bit. Paulo shuffles him up so his head is resting on the pillow, and his arm is curled across Paulo’s chest. “Any time at all. All you have to do is ask.”

Paulo doesn’t respond. He just turns out the light, and does his best to hide his wide grin in Jan’s shoulder.


End file.
